Fiction+-+Wagon+Wheel+Wonders

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VanAllsburg's Harp By Jo Dunlap

I dream of the garden again. Each time the sounds of water tumbling across stone, the wind rustling through the trees, the gentle warmth of the sunshine breaking through the canopy, becomes more real, more difficult to abandon come the end of my worldly self’s time for sleep.

This time I delve deeper into the forest, perhaps with the courage instilled by the presence of Rufus, my faithful Labrador, by my side. This time I hear the gentle melody as soon as my face cools with the fragrance of pine trees and wildflowers. I follow the melody as the chords beckon me in; Rufus keeps close to my heels.

The tumbling of the clear cool water calls to me to ease the discomfort of my worn, swollen feet. I reached down to untie my boot but something glimmering downstream on the opposite bank attracts my attention. Somehow I know, just know, this time the dream will not be the same. I can see the music traveling toward me through the air—not just hear the notes. As I move mindlessly toward the source of the melody, it seduces my soul.

This is real. Something continues to call me back to this place for a reason even I do not comprehend the purpose. Is this my burning bush in the wilderness? To what purpose am I being called? Certainly this is my Eden.

Fording the stream, I approach the golden harp. The melody ceases mid-phrase, the story begging to continue. Pulled by the magnetism between myself and the instrument, we become one with the first touch. The melodies begin to flow, Rufus coiled contentedly at my feet. Ceaselessly I strum and pluck, breathing sadness and joy, fear and confidence, heartache and elation through the magic of the instrument. This dream is now my reality, a gift from which I cannot turn away.

Though I do not know how long I am consumed with the music by the stream, I know the end of time for rest is quickly approaching for my self who dwells in the world outside this place. I can no longer refer to that existence as an awakened world for I have never before felt the level of consciousness experienced as when the music travels from my soul, through the instrument and feeds thought and imagination more powerfully that a holiday banquet for a starving beggar found frozen in the snow.

Rufus stands and stretches and wags his tail telling me that it is time to make the difficult choice. Dam the river of feeling flowing through my being and return to a reality that will never experience the buoyancy of this moment, or forever live only through the instrument, the melodic vibration of the strings replacing the beating of my heart. I close my eyes. I cannot choose.

Rufus nuzzles my elbow and I reluctantly remove my fingers from the strings, one by one. The muscles in my shoulders seize as my hands clench into fists to avoid contact with the instrument. If I touch it again I will not depart. Silence falls across the river, the water slows to a trickle; I can not breathe.

I force my feet to take one step, another, finally my boots make contact with the stones in the waterless river. A single note, and then another. The stream begins to flow again, slowly at first, then the water came as if it had forgotten the previous moment. The instrument plays an unfamiliar tune; someone else’s song. I catch my breath and continue across the river following Rufus back the way we had come.

Like Lot’s wife, I turn back for one last glimpse; my heart aches. Transformed, I leave the garden knowing that I will not dream of this reality again. A new day has come. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Where's the mitt? By Jeff H. Roper

“Hey mom, have you seen my baseball mitt? It should be in my bat bag,” Johnny fretted. “No haven’t seen it,” Mom replied. He continued his frantic search through the bat bag, the dirty clothes contained in it, found his baseball, but no mitt. He was scheduled to pitch in about 30 minutes. “Mom, I think it may have slipped out of my bat bag when I changed clothes,” Johnny blurted out. With a measured response and a deep breath, Johnny’s mother asked, “Where did this happen exactly?” while reaching behind her, adjusting the juice box for Johnny’s sister who was fledgling around in her car seat. ” “I left it in the bathroom at the circus,” Johnny said flatly. “You’re kidding,” Mom sarcastically responds while whipping the family station wagon in a 180 degree U-turn, heading back to the circus. Johnny asked his mother if they were going to be late. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left your mitt at the circus,” was her retort. Tensions were running high, so Johnny decided not to continue the conversation. His mom raised some more issues aloud like, “Where is you father when he is really needed at a moment like this? He’s probably at some writers’ convention again drinking pina coladas under a palm tree being inspired by puppies chasing butterflies.” Vicky came to a halt with a slight skid on the white gravel parking in lot. She unharnassed the indestructible Fisher-Price rollercoaster safety certified car seat. Mom moved quickly with a stern look on her face. With Megan carried under one arm and Johnny’s wrist secured tightly with the other hand, they made it to the circus doors. A guard says, Ma’am you can’t go in there.” Vicky went into a different gear, “Look sir, I’ve got to get my son to a ballgame in twenty minutes. The park is about fifteen minutes from here. He is the starting pitcher and he left his mitt in the boy’s bathroom. Johnny exhibited the appropriate sheepish look. The guard relented. In they walked. Johnny scampered into the bathroom. Two minutes later, no Johnny. Vicky barges into the bathroom, “Jonathan Clayton, where are you?” “Hello ma’am,” one guy says, then quickly zips up and leaves the bathroom. Johnny, standing outside a stall says, “Someone is in there.” Vicky politely knocks on the stall and asks, “Sir, is there a boy’s baseball mitt in there.” A half second later, a man’s shoe pushes the mitt outside the stall. “Thank you, sir,” Vicky says. Johnny grabs the mitt; they walk briskly out of the circus; she smiles at the guard at the door; then, looking at her son with an encouraging grin, she says, “I think we’ll just make it.” Johnny exhaled. . THE RODEO MUST GO ON By Jonette Shuja “Oh, no!” groaned Gary. He stopped his bike and blinked unbelievingly. Today was Tuesday. The livestock trucks should be here at the rodeo grounds. That would give the animals time to rest before Thursday’s performance in Gary’s small hometown. If the trucks weren’t here soon, then there would be no rodeo, a mid-August tradition since Gary’s great grandparents were young. Gary turned his bike around and headed for the gas station. Uncle Dee would know what to do. If there were no rodeo, Uncle Dee couldn’t grill up his famous hamburgers at the concession stand. “Hey, what’s new, Gary?” Uncle Dee greeted him from behind a cash register. “Uncle Dee, there aren’t any livestock trucks at the rodeo grounds. And, if they don’t come soon, there won’t be a rodeo on Thursday. We’ve had a rodeo here since before you were born. You can’t grill up your ham. . .” “Whoa, hold on, Gary! The truck will probably be here any minute.” Uncle Dee looked at his wristwatch. Then he scratched his head. “It’s getting a little late. Let me call Maynard, he’s the guy in charge of things.” Uncle Dee pulled out a phone and pressed some buttons. When Uncle Dee ended the call, Gary questioned, “What did he say?” “He’ll let us know in a little bit,” answered Uncle Dee. “Let’s have a cold pop while we’re waiting.” After awhile the phone rang. Uncle Dee listened briefly to the caller then hung up and urged Gary, “Call your mom and see if it’s all right if you go for a ride with me.” Soon they were headed out of town in Uncle Dee’s tow truck. Gary was full of questions. “What happened? Where are we going? Will there be a rodeo? Why are you headed the wrong way?” Uncle Dee answered patiently, “The trucks came down the wrong road and can’t get through the tunnel. We’re goin’ to see if we can help ‘em out. Once we get those trucks, for sure, there’ll be a rodeo.” “But, Uncle Dee,” continued Gary, “they should’ve taken the other road. To backtrack will take two or three hours. There’s no way around the tunnel, because the river cuts off all the roads. There’s only one bridge across the river. And. . .” “Anyone growing up in these parts knows all that,” said Uncle Dee. “I guess nobody told the truckers. We’ll just have to see what we can do.” Soon, they came upon the tunnel, Gary shouted, “Hey, I see ‘em.” The trucks had no room to pull off the road, so they were lined up one after the other, stopping one lane of traffic. “It’s a good thing there’s not much traffic on this road,” Uncle Dee commented as he pulled behind them to keep one lane open. Gary and Uncle Dee climbed out. “We’ve got ourselves a little problem,” Uncle Dee greeted one of the drivers. “We sure have,” answered one of the three truckers. The other two were using flags to warn drivers to slow down. A car came through the tunnel and pulled behind Uncle Dee’s truck. It was Mr. Maynard, the rodeo organizer. “What are we going to do, Dee?” Mr. Maynard asked as he hurried out from his car. “Well, there’s no place to turn around. I guess we’ll have to back these trucks up a half mile or so until they get to a place to turn around. Then, they’ll have to backtrack and come into town the right way.” “That’ll take hours!” exclaimed Mr. Maynard. “We can’t do that.” Gary had moved near the first truck and stood beside it in deep thought. “Who didn’t tell these truckers to come down the right road in the first place?” asked Uncle Dee. “We’ve been using this company for years. I’d think they’d know by now to come down Highway 64,” answered Mr. Maynard. Gary had begun to nudge Uncle Dee’s elbow. Uncle Dee ignored him and continued to criticize Mr. Maynard. “It looks to me, Maynard that you don’t know as much about organizing as you think you do.” “It looks to me,” answered Mr. Maynard, “that you’ve fried more than just hamburgers, like your brain for instance.” Gary shook Uncle Dee’s arm. “What is it, Gary?” “I think I know an easier way to get the trucks out to the rodeo grounds,” said Gary. “Now, your ten year old friend is going to help us out,” sneered Mr. Maynard. “Let’s hear him out Maynard,” replied Uncle Dee. “At least it beats us two chasing around in circles. Okay, Gary, shoot.” “The trucks are just an inch or so too high to get through the tunnel,” explained Gary. “You’ve already found out more than we have, go on,” encouraged Uncle Dee. “Well,” said Gary, “can’t we just let the air out? On these big trucks, it won’t mean a lot of pressure, and then we’ll use the portable compressor to air up the tires on the other side of the tunnel.” Uncle Dee, Mr. Maynard, and the trucker all looked at each other. “I’m sure it’ll work!” exclaimed Uncle Dee. “Let’s get going, boys!” shouted Mr. Maynard. In a short while, the trucks were on the other side of the tunnel. Each tire was being aired back up. Mr. Maynard spoke to Gary, “Do you have a horse?” “No, sir.” “Then we’ll put you in a wagon with me, the mayor, and Uncle Dee to introduce you to the opening night crowd. “I’ll be too busy grilling hamburgers,” returned Uncle Dee. Mr. Maynard continued, “You and Gary are going to be introduced as the ones who saved the rodeo. We’ll also tell ‘em that you make the best hamburgers they ever tasted. You’ll sell plenty.” Gary and Uncle Dee smiled at each other, lifted their right hands, and clapped them together. “Let’s head ‘em on out then,” said Uncle Dee as he turned towards the truck.

 Gilean and the Ogres by Casey W. Christofferson

“Ogres? Ogres?” Gilean complained to himself. Why did it always have to be ogres? Stupid meat-bags that they were, they were damnably dangerous when they get themselves worked up.

Gilean kept his cool as he approached the huge lummoxes and cleared his throat.

“Well hello there gentlemen! What brings you to the trail on such a fine day?” he said with a cat that ate the canary grin and the highest value of formal greeting he could muster for such foul creatures.

Gilean pretended not to notice the squirming leather man-skin sacks the ogres had tossed over their shoulders, nor the muffled cries that came from within. In fact, he even tried to ignore the shapely foot with dirt squished between its finely formed toes that poked from the top of one of the ogres’ sacks.

“Huh?” exclaimed the ogres as they sized up the velvet-cloaked being that addressed them. “Who’s you sneaks up like dat?” said the one with iron grey bands of armor. The metal plates appeared to have been hammered out of the breastplates of Knight Errant’s’ who had made this duo’s unfortunate acquaintance.

“Yeah, who’s you?” said the greasy, mostly naked one with the tree-trunk club affixed with a crow bill end cap.

“Good sirs!” Gilean exclaimed. “It is I, Gilean Gale. I am friend of ogre, troll, and dragon. I am a wanderer in the forest like yourselves and minstrel of the wilds.” He bowed deeply so that his silvery hair almost brushed the clover at his feet. “And I am at your service of course!”

The ogres grunted and glanced yellow-eyed at one another before snorting their derision. “You talkie too much, an we’s already gots us some food,” said the iron clad ogre.

“Yup,” said the big bellied one with the club. “Maybe we just kills you now and takes your stuff. Maybe we kills you now and eats you later.”

“Kill? No, no, no my friends. Completely un-necessary for there to be any killing at all today. You misunderstand. I am an entertainer. A performer my friends! I am a poet, playwright, minstrel, actor, and singer of songs. I offer my services to you as entertainment while you prepare your supper. Free of charge, unless of course you good fellows like games of chance,” Gilean said. His words were smooth and soothing to calm the murderous impulses that that so often drove ogres to mayhem.

He knew that lots of words confuse them. A bit of misdirection was the key. Whoever was in the bag obviously needed his help from these nitwits. As he approached closer he caught the sweet and sour stench of their sweat and carefully muffled a gag as his stomach bubbled unhappily. He could only imagine how disgusting the odor inside their putrid skin bags must be.

“Here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let me show you.” With a flourish he un-slung the guitarra he kept strapped across his back as the ogres scowled confusedly. The club-bearer leaned on his tree trunk while the iron clad cracked his knuckles and sat down violently, giving his sack a good smack to keep it from wriggling as he did. Gilean flinched feeling very sorry for the occupant of that man-skin sack as he then nodded and smiled an even broader smile for benefit of his audience. He clambered atop a stone and began to strum his guitarra. There was a charm he knew, and a good one. If he remembered it right, he could tie the charm into the melody of the song.

“Bur belly o’ and Bur belly I’ I once was a walking in the forest was I

Bur belly o’ and Bur Belly I’ They said not to go but wouldn’t say why!

Bur belly o’ and Bur Belly yay’ There’s ogres and trolls in the forest today!

Bur belly o’ and Bur Belly yay….

His fingers strummed perfectly upon the twisted copper and twined cat gut strings as he nodded and emphasized the notes, digging carefully at the chords. Luckily the two lunk-heads were transfixed. He nodded his head appreciatively as Tree-trunk sat down and Iron Belly rocked forward on his haunches, sitting his bag down once and for all. Sadly it didn’t seem to be moving anymore. Carefully he wove the Abthian charm into the song so as not to be obvious about his sorcery.

“Bur belly o’ Sleepy you go Bur Belly I, your eyes are so tired.

Two ogres walked into the forest today

Bur belly’ sleep, Bur Belly Bow Sleep little babies, to sleep time you go

Two ogres asleep, and never to wake

Bur belly baby forever sleep is your fate.”

A loud ripping snore arose from the ogres as they rolled over and snuggled each other, just as the whelps had done when they lay in their mamma Hag’s womb.

Gilean let the chords of the song die out. Leaning his guitarra against the stone he carefully padded forward as he drew his slim bladed Abthian longsword.

“Careful now!” He murmured to himself. “Lest we not break a twig or trip and fall on your face!”

The charm worked better than he had hoped. Too well in fact as the wriggling satchels lay silent as well, save for the soft snoring that poured from Tree Trunk’s bag.

Gilean now stood over the hulking brutes with knife in hand. His thumb ran along the edge of his knife as he pondered his next move. He already knew what Bull and Frosk, and hell, even Rowan would do in this situation, but he was not they. He liked to consider himself to be a bit more civilized then that, and truly his Abthian blood screamed against murder, even if it were to save an innocent. Besides, maybe the ones in the bag aren’t so innocent? He was not a god after all, and didn’t have the wherewithal to look into the hearts of men and judge them as gods do. He was just a half-blood with a bit of a knack for charm making, a bit of wood-craft, and a bit of burglary in his make-up.

Still, these ogres were certainly murderers judged by the human bones that adorned their throats and their man-skin bags. Letting them live would invite them to murder others, and make them wary of strange minstrels on morning trails in the future.

With a slight sigh he lifted the sword and made to let it plunge into the Iron Belly’s throat just as he heard a familiar whizzing rip from the tree-line. He blinked in fascination as a feathered shaft sprouted from Iron Belly’s eye socket and another pair sprouted like magic from Tree Trunk’s eyes. Both lurched, twitched, and lay silent as he stood in wonder, the sword going slack in his fingertips.

“Gilean, you fool,” a harsh whisper called from the woods. “Better me than you to do this deed I suppose.” The figure stepped into the light of the trail where he could better see. It mattered not as he knew her voice as well as he knew his own.

Shapely and strong, and tall as a tree, her long-limbed figure was unmistakable. Suntanned cheeks framed her icy Amazonian eyes, yet a bemused grin lit her coral pink lips as she surveyed him as surely as he surveyed her.

There stood Rowan, his usual savior.

And as usual, he was filled with that strange rush of boyhood lust and shy embarrassment. How could it be that Rowan was the only woman he had ever met who had had this impact on him?

Before he could speak a moan rose from the man skin sack which Tree Trunk had carried and the shapely feet began to kick with claustrophobic fright.

“Wesley,” screamed a muffled voice. “Save me!”

Rowan poked Wesley’s sack and frowned. Slicing the rope that held it shut she poked her head in and swore. She then turned, shaking her head to Gilean.

“I think you better tell her.” Rowan said sadly.

Gilean nodded and frowned as he sliced open the satchel with the shapely feet. There were lots of songs that he sang about heroes. Most songs of heroes didn’t have any poetic verse about telling a maiden that her savior had been mashed to a pulp by ogres. Heroic death in battle for sure, even death from broken heart. Mashed by ogres however just didn’t have a heroic ring to it no matter how you turned the verse.

Damned ogres.


 The old couple awoke to a cloudy day promising rain. The low-lying clouds reflected the woman’s mood. Her husband, Walter, insisted they attend today’s auction. When she had protested, he had become angry. She feared his anger. Twice in recent months he had raised his hand to slap her. This was not the gentle giant she'd been married to for sixty years. Unable to dissuade him and fearful of his strength, she agreed to attend today's auction. Now they sat on the fringes of the crowd, listening to the auctioneer's rhythmic cadence as he sold item after item. Canning jars, collecting dust on some basement shelf; a tin watering can for the garden; knick-knacks cluttering the tables, all junk to be cleaned out. “Table linens, ladies and gentlemen, with tatted edges which once covered tables in the old Hupp House. Who’ll start the bidding on this fine handiwork?” Her mother had taught her how to crochet and embroider, but she d never learned the intricate tatting which decorated the edges of the tablecloths and dresser scarves. A delicate lace pattern, some of these linens actually had initials tatted into the borders. “Five dollars” came a shout from the back of the crowd. She remembered the old Hupp House. Once a boarding house, which sat on the corner of First and Main Streets, it provided comfortable beds and delicious meals for weary travelers. Long since closed and replaced by a Kentucky Fried Chicken, the only reminder of that wonderful place was this box of table linens and cloth napkins, which someone had just purchased for a measly ten-dollar bill. She longed to stroll around, but she knew she didn’t dare leave Walter’s side fearing he would wander away or bid on something they didn’t need. So she sat in her padded lawn chair, memories flooding her as each piece was held in the air. Bids were now being taken for a box of yesteryear's aprons made from flour sacks. She sat reminiscing the large family gatherings where the meals lasted all day. She could almost smell Grandma’s pan-fried chicken, potatoes with cream gravy, green beans seasoned with bacon grease, and at least seven types of pie. She missed those family meals. With their own children scattered across the country, they hadn't gathered at the same time for several years. “A solid oak glider rocker,” announced the auctioneer. “Who’ll give me twenty?” Oh, the hours spent rocking six babies to sleep over the years; or rocking worriedly as she awaited their late-night returns, and in more recent years, rocking as she crocheted booties and baby quilts for the great-great grandchildren. “Sold! Number twenty-seven!” She hoped that whoever purchased the rocker would enjoy rocking babies and grandchildren as she had. Walter reached over and took her hand in his. He must have been reading her mind. She wondered if she were making the right decision. At times Walter appeared lucid, like now, but more often, his mind regressed fifty years. His long-term memory seemed flawless, but he couldn’t recall what he’d done five minutes ago. When he began wandering away from home and forgetting where he was, she knew a decision had to be made. Last month Walter had walked to the lumber yard, where he’d gone almost daily for the past few years for an afternoon chat. But the proprietor had called and said Walter seemed disoriented. Walter didn’t remember where he was or how to get home. That experience had reinforced her decision to go through with her plans. Since then he’d only had those two episodes of extreme anger. Otherwise, he seemed well. Her son and daughters had told her to quit second-guessing herself, but they lived four states away and came home once a year, at most. Now the auctioneer was taking bids on a bedroom set. They’d purchased their share of beds in the sixty years they’d been married. With that six-bedroom, two-story house where they had housed many college students, along with their own children, there seemed no end to the hauling in and out of beds and mattresses over the years. The auctioneer now moved out to the driveway to sell the blue ’69 Chevy. Those older cars were certainly a lot stronger and heavier than today’s lightweight compact models. She steered Walter back to their chairs. Hhe sat smiling at the car, and she knew he was inwardly laughing at her. He had tried once to teach her how to drive, but she had hit the gas instead of the brake and had driven straight through the garage door. It had scared her half to death. She refused to get behind the wheel again. As the auctioneer’s voice rang out, she remembered when Walt had stopped the car in the middle of the highway to change a flat tire. He shrugged with confusion when a highway patrolman had berated him while helping him change the tire. That car was the last of his independence, and he had fought hard to keep it, but eventually the children made sure his license was not renewed. It was hard adjusting to that dependence on others. So he took to walking the several blocks downtown to the bank in his worn overalls, side buttons unbuttoned, to visit with friends and acquaintances, determined that no son or daughter of his was going to tell him what he could and could not do. “One hundred dollars, sold to number forty-two,” said the auctioneer. The old woman clenched her jaw tightly. A lifetime of memories was being sold for nickels and dimes. This had been a mistake. This auction, to sell their house and belongings, was to provide money for their long-term care in the assisted living center they had recently moved into. But as the bids on the house faded slowly, it became clear their dreams of a comfortable end-of-life were diminishing into fears for their future. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. It was too late now, too late to put a stop to this and say she’d changed her mind. Pride was a difficult pill to swallow, but they would have to do just that and seek public assistance in their remaining years. She had taken care of Walter this long, hadn’t she? Maybe she should have just tried to endure a little longer. He had been better lately, hadn’t he? And although he had raised his hand to her, he hadn’t actually hit her. But how long would it be before he did? Had this been the right decision? She turned to Walt to see if she could read his thoughts. He stared at her with questioning eyes for what seemed an eternity. Finally he said, “I feel like I should know you. What did you say your name was again?” A lifetime of precious memories gone in an instant. She clenched her jaw as she has done more and more frequently in the past months. She hoped he would see past the sadness in her voice as she responded. “My name’s Martha. It’s so good to meet you. What brings you to this auction?”  __

 Sand. All around him, nothing but sand, sifting into everything. Down his boots, crusting in the sweat on the back of his neck, filtering into his pockets, dusting his hands and face, slipping in between the dry cracks of his lips, stinging, salty-tasting. Constantly present, it followed him everywhere. Pasty, sand-colored vehicles of all sizes and descriptions. Sand-colored camouflage gear and equipment. Uniforms of sand-colored camouflage. Even the ruddy-faced corporal himself was sandy-haired. He looked around again. Come to think of it, most of the guys in Bravo Company were ruddy-faced and sandy-haired just like him after their brief stint in the desert, which had already seemed to them an eternity. He sat beside the transport, between the humvees and his buddies, slumping softly into the powdery dirt, almost seductive in the way it snuggled in and cradled him. The unbearably high temperatures joined in the maternal impersonation, at once smothering and lulling him to sleep. What was he doing here? September 11th, visions of the Twin Towers rubble. The search for Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and nebulous, nefarious weapons of mass destruction. Mom, the Flag, and fresh hot Apple Pie. Lady Liberty all lit up, bejeweled amid the New York harbor night. The iconic American eagle soaring proudly over purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain. Surfing crisp, clear blue Pacific waters off the coast of sunny California, and dancing flames in sunset shadows from bonfires on the sandy beach—there it was again, tormenting him even in his dreams—the sand was everywhere. He opened his eyes again. Nothing unusual. The guys were just milling around outside the back of the com truck, the interior of which could easily rival the technology display and light show from a Star Wars movie. Faintly in the distant background he could see the locals milling too, around their neighborhood bazaar, and he could hear the din of their crowded commercial discourse, complete with soundtrack courtesy of a minjayrah street musician. Mostly men and boys strolled along, and a few women in heavy black burkas tightly herded children along with them as they bustled through narrow streets. That kid on his bicycle could’ve been his little brother, easy--an all-American boy, blue eyes and freckle-faced, he was ruggedly endearing with his unruly mop of sandy hair peeking out from under the red baseball cap. The corporal remembered pitching hard ball every night after supper to the kid, who never tired of the attention and affection that this evening ritual would bring to both of them. He loved the World Series winning grin he saw every time he gazed into those deep blue pools of optimism. He focused again. It wasn’t sandy hair, but jet black—streaking wildly--and this was no red baseball cap, either--but a dingy woven skullcap. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. Something in his stony glare was all too serious, desperate--intense beyond the normal ebony sadness the corporal had come to recognize and expect. Why was he in such a hurry? Why was he headed this way? He had some sort of messenger bag hanging from one shoulder across his bony torso. Not much different from the brother’s canvas bag, the one he used for his nightly paper route. The boy pulled something like a small package out. The corporal remembered his brother tossing newspapers effortlessly into driveways all along the streets of his neighborhood back home. But this was not his neighborhood back home--and this was not his brother delivering papers. He saw something indistinguishable coming at him, but it was clearly not the evening news, nor was it his brother’s cherished baseball. Unthinking, he caught it with the instant reflexes developed through years of youthful practice, honed sharp by military discipline. The package burst open in a flash of light and burned into his palms like the fast ball his brother finally got right only once. He shot it back past third base, drove it hard and straight, deep into the outfield. The recoil from his pitch shoved him off balance, slammed him against the side of the com truck. Time stopped and everything around him moved in blurry slow motion, like it did in one of those old movies he used to watch with his kid brother on Saturday night. It was the bottom of the ninth, and a runner was stealing home for the winning run. The corporal could see the umpire gradually, deliberately, mouthing the decisive call and waving his hands in official judgment, but he could hear absolutely nothing as the runner slid across home plate in a cloud of … sand. Lynda Wasser
 * // Bottom of the Ninth //**

 ELM TREE CAPER by Jonette Shuja

Chip, the squirrel, lived in the big elm tree in Mrs. Pennycost’s side yard. Saad was a boy who lived next door to Mrs. Pennycost. He could see into the top of the big elm tree from his bedroom window. He and Chip had become friends. Somehow or other, Chip could run up the branches of the tree and jump to Saad’s house. He would appear on Saad’s window ledge and beg for food and be rewarded with peanuts in the shell. Saad knew that Chip, being a wild animal, should not be petted, so he poked the food through a hole in the screen. Playing outside one September day Saad heard voices coming from Mrs. Pennycost’s yard. A man had a long pole with a knife on the end to cut branches from the tree. He shook his head as he studied the branches. His look was grim. Saad got an icky feeling as he watched the man, and knew that somehow, this man was mean. Saad heard the man tell Mrs. Pennycost, “This tree has Dutch elm disease. Nothing can save it. It has to be cut down. I can give you a cost and schedule a time to chop it down.” “Oh, my, such an awful thing to happen to a beautiful tree!” said Mrs. Pennycost. “This tree has always been here. What will I do without its beauty and shade?” The man ordered, “Better do it before the disease spreads. I’m giving you a good deal, but only if we can cut it this week. Call me by tomorrow for this low price.” He thrust a paper into Mrs. Pennycost’s hand, then left. Saad went over to her and asked, “Mrs. Pennycost is that man really going to cut down the elm tree?” “Not if I can help it, Saad,” replied Mrs. Pennycost. “He seemed like one shifty-eyed character trying to pull the wool over an elderly widow’s eyes. I’m going to teach that young man a lesson. You can help, too, if you like.” “Count me in!” exclaimed Saad. “I’ve got to save Chip’s home.” “Look around at our neighbors’ elm trees,” requested Mrs. Pennycost, “notice if they all have yellow and dried leaves. I think it must be due to our dry weather and the approach of autumn, not Dutch elm disease. Did you hear the man pressure me into making a snap decision? That’s a sign that something underhanded is going on.” “Something about him gave me the creeps!” added Saad. “I’ll go inside and call city hall,” advised Mrs. Pennycost. “They can send someone to inspect the tree and tell us for sure if it has Dutch elm disease because they’ll want to keep other trees from getting it.” Next morning, Saad was awakened by a scratching at his window. “Hello, Chip! Are you hungry? Saad popped a few peanuts through the screen. “That’ll keep you busy getting those peanuts out of their shell. I’ve got to report to Mrs. Pennycost that all the trees for blocks around have dry, yellow leaves. See you later Chip.” Saad found a city tree expert talking to Mrs. Pennycost, “No way does this tree have Dutch elm disease. I inspect trees and keep an eye on them all over town. I would have been telling you to cut it down, if it had the disease. A lot of branches are dead and need trimming, nothing else.” The expert left and Saad suggested, “Why don’t we go talk to Officer Joe and see if the police can do something about this guy?” A few days later, buzzing could be heard at Mrs. Pennycost’s house. A reliable man and his helper were trimming the big elm. Saad and Mrs. Pennycost watched anxiously to be sure Chip’s home wasn’t disturbed. A voice startled them, “Aren’t you going to cut down that tree?” It was the man whom Mrs. Pennycost suspected of being underhanded. Mrs. Pennycost pressed Saad’s arm as she spoke to the man, “There is no need, since it doesn’t have Dutch elm disease.” “Who told you that?” demanded the man. Mrs. Pennycost proceeded to tell him, in great length, what had transpired. Saad didn’t hear. He had slipped into Mrs. Pennycost’s house to call Officer Joe. He had barely hung up and slipped back outside when Officer Joe arrived. Walking up to the man Officer Joe said, “I think you need to be talking to me down at police headquarters. Here’s my I.D. We want to know why you wanted to have Mrs. Pennycost pay you to cut down a perfectly good tree.” The man opened his mouth to protest. At that very moment, small bombs fell from the sky hitting the man on his head. Ker plunk! Ker plunk! Ker plunk! “Ouch!” the man yelled. “What are you doing to me?” “You’re all right,” said Officer Joe. “It was just a few, um, er, peanuts.” He looked up, but seeing no one, he shook his head and led the man away. “That’s one shifty-eyed character out of our way,” Mrs. Pennycost smiled at Saad. “We make a good team,” replied Saad, “especially Chip and his peanut bombs!” “That we do,” agreed Mrs. Pennycost, “that we do.” Jonette Shuja 

Any kind of text that looks like handwritten is fine. I used Bradley Hand ITC, but I am not that picky, if we don't have special fonts when it is printed.